Duco Draconis
by Ankh-Ascendant
Summary: Blaise thinks he has a deal. Draco doesn't think he can refuse. Blaise/Draco


_TITLE: Duco Draconis  
CHAPTER: oneshot  
AUTHOR: Ankh Ascendant ( setosgirl0 / neferseti0 )  
DATE: 1-8-10  
FANDOM: Harry Potter  
DISCLAIMER: I don't own HP, or make any money from it.  
PAIRINGS: Blaise/Draco  
TYPE: Drama  
RATING: PG  
WARNINGS: slash and minors, but not actual sex  
OCs: none  
BETA: none  
WORDS: 940  
SUMMARY: Blaise thinks he has a deal. Draco doesn't think he can refuse.  
NOTES: The title is Latin for... well, many words, but they include "influence", "command", "lead on the march"... mostly generally in that vein. I imagine this (OOC) version of Blaise with an inherited power, like Perseltongue, based on the ways snakes are (spuriously) said to hypnotise their prey with eye contact. Didn't I read that his mother was a strangely alluring singer? I might be hallucinating that. Anyway, if you read it that way is up to you. :)_

* * *

Duco Draconis

Deep black eyes met his liquid grey, joining in silence and lingering.

Rich dark skin that was almost the color of his eyes, reflecting the dim light of the dungeon only in deep mahogany highlights, disappeared into plain black school robes that shifted with a whisper, sliding down his arm as he lifted his hand. Long, strong fingers brushed over a delicate pointed chin and a cheek so pale only moonlight would highlight it properly.

He had to lift his chin to meet those dark eyes. The dark figure loomed above him, accentuating his own slight stature. Cloth hissed as the other moved closer, but he was paralyzed. He couldn't even blink his eyes to dispel whatever magic was in the air, captivated as he was by the deep eyes. They held him fast, pinned in place like an interesting specimen for study, allowed no escape, given no empathy.

"Zabini..." He struggled with his voice, forcing the words from his mouth. It was high, weak, but honestly he was impressed that he could summon it at all. "What are you doing?"

Blaise smiled. It was not a warm smile – nothing about him was. The smile made his face into some sort of cold and soulless carving mocking emotion it couldn't understand; his eyes stayed deep and dark like bottomless pools of icy water. Even his skin was cool, pulling heat from his cheek and making him shiver as he touched him.

"You want me in your gang, don't you?" His voice was low and deep like his eyes, silky like the light on his skin. Another shiver ran up his spine, and it had nothing to do with the cool touch of his hand. "You have since first year. Well, now I'm thinking about it."

"What are you... thinking...?" His voice failed him, trailing off with the last word, and he swallowed thickly. There was something so compelling about Blaise's cool visage that he couldn't look away.

One finger tapped his cheek, and Draco jerked as though it had been a blow.

"I was thinking we can come to an arrangement."

His mouth opened of its own accord to ask a question, but he had no idea what was supposed to come out. It flapped once, pathetically empty, then he shivered and closed it again.

Blaise might have been amused, but he didn't show it. No real emotion ever marred his cold, carved features. That coldness was so alien, so foreign to him, that it drew him helplessly close. He had never managed that coldness. He could compartmentalize, rationalize, manipulate, calculate all he wanted, but he had never been able to achieve that near-perfect coldness he should have possessed, the fine Malfoy personality that was expected of him. Somewhere beneath all the compartmentalizing and calculating the emotion was still there, always there, burning, and sometimes he lost control of it... He yelled in anger. He pouted to get what he wanted. He feared and couldn't hide it. Sometimes he even cried, when he had no choice but to let it out or let it consume him. At his core, he was always burning...

And because he could never realize that iciness, it drew him. Blaise's imperturbable cold shell was an unattainable pinnacle of perfection, an idol that he should have emulated.

Could he stand to be any closer than he was to something that reminded him of what he couldn't be? A reminder every day of his shortcomings?

Could he refuse? If Blaise wanted close to him, could he really summon the will to say no?

"Maybe I'll join your little gang." Blaise's silky voice just seemed to roll off his tongue without effort. Draco wasn't entirely certain he was speaking and not projecting the words magically. "I'll help you with your desire for the illusion of control. You want to look like a leader, and I don't really care for it, one way or the other. But, perhaps, it will help your standing with the other people who care, if I seem to defer to you."

He should have been insulted. Part of him almost was. Illusion of control? Little gang? He made him sound so immature, like this was all a petty game Blaise had long outgrown.

Yet even that sank down into the burning core of roiling, senseless emotions that battled, barely touching the surface of his thoughts. He couldn't focus on the insults and the offhand comments that were designed to ruffle his scales. He could only think that Blaise's plan had merit, real merit. He would look better with a Zabini in his group, and he was certainly more competent and intelligent than Crabbe and Goyle put together...

"And... you?" His traitor voice returned, cracked and unsteady, refusing still to obey. It said the words that it wanted to, regardless of any real thought. "What do you get...?"

The cold smile slid across the black boy's perfectly chiseled face again, and he leaned close. "Well," he breathed over his ear; the breath itself was cold. "We both know you aren't really leader material..."

He could never have said why, but the pronouncement robbed the strength from his legs. His knees threatened to buckle, and he swayed, but a cool hand pressed over his robes and pulled him close and steady.

"All right..." he agreed breathlessly, and his slender fingers twined in the coarse robes. "...All right..."

He got only the fleeting impression of the reptilian smile of a snake before cool lips pressed against his, and then he was burning...

_~end~_


End file.
